


Thirst

by TaleWorthTelling



Category: Captain America (Comics)
Genre: M/M, light daddy!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6066208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWorthTelling/pseuds/TaleWorthTelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was about to apologize, wondering if he’d ruined things with his mouth, when Steve’s hips shifted, way too careful and subtle to be anything but a neon sign proclaiming “Here Lieth Steve’s Massive Erection,” which prompted him into thinking a tasteless “stiff as the dead” joke, which got him to thinking about shambling zombies and wondering if they shuffled that way because they had awkward stiffies, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirst

It was so hot out that Bucky’s thighs were sticking to his bedroll. His _bedroll_. Which defied the laws of physics but nonetheless continued to be true. Every ten or fifteen minutes he peeled them away from the sweaty spots on the fabric and searched for a drier spot to settle into. The sun was almost down and it felt like cheating that it was still so damn hot when the horizon had gone all orangey-pink. Blue was hotter than orange flame, wasn’t it?

 

God, maybe the heat was frying his brain.

 

Maybe that was why he agreed to go camping in the middle of a war.

 

It was Steve’s fault. Despite how the comics were constantly trying to paint him as a silly kid sidekick in perpetual need of rescue, always getting them into aw-shucks trouble for the mighty Captain America to bail them out of, everything when it came down to it was really all Steve’s fault. (Except when it wasn’t, probably.) He could have been sneaking beer and chatting up nice British girls back in London, but no, Steve, city guy that he was, said that he wanted to see what it was like to sleep in a tent that didn’t smell faintly of explosives. (Bucky thought he was making it up. He couldn’t possibly smell half of the things he’d tried to convince Bucky he did. No one could have a sense of smell like that or they’d go crazy. Bucky knew he would.)

 

So here Bucky lay on the ground in a tent somewhere in what he thought was Spain with only _two_ guns nearby. He was practically naked. And he thought his butt actually _squelched_ when he shifted onto his front to pillow his face in his arms.

 

So, naturally, Steve was whistling that song from that Snow White movie when he stooped into the tent. The bastard.

 

Steve nudged him in the calf with his booted toe. “Have you moved at all since I left?”

 

He groaned, shoving his fingers through his drenched hair and grimacing. “I think I’ve melted into an entirely new undiscovered state of matter. Your scientist pals’ll really have a field day with this one.”

 

“I don’t have scientist pals. Scoot over.”

 

Bucky rolled over onto his back and made room for Steve without thinking. “Sure you do. They’re always giving you stuff to test.”

 

Steve thought that over. “Fair enough.” He pulled his rucksack off of his shoulders and set it at his feet to rummage through.

 

Rummage. Bucky snorted. Steve never rummaged. He always looked like he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly where to look for the thing he was looking for, like he knew where he’d find just about anything, from Zemo to toothpaste. Bucky had spent a lot of time getting to know good ol’ Cap up close and personal and he felt pretty confident in claiming that a load of horseshit. Cap just _looked_ like he always knew everything. Steve Rogers rooted around through his pack for his drawers just like everyone else.

 

Well, he was slightly more organized out of necessity, but still. Bucky had learned how to pack well, but Steve had this way of making it look like it just came naturally.

 

He realized that he’d been staring during his mental tangent when Steve shook a canteen in front of his face and the water sloshed around in it. He blinked before he took it, glancing peevishly Steve’s way as he unscrewed the cap and took a sip, and then practically emptied it over his face in his haste to suck it all down. Goddamn, that was good.

 

Steve gently pulled it away. “Easy, there. Take it slow if you’re really that thirsty.”

 

“Ah, sorry.” He gulped. “You probably need some.”

 

Steve shook his head. “Clean stream’s nearby. I can get more. I just don’t want you to make yourself sick.”

 

Bucky took the canteen back gratefully and drank more slowly this time, considering Steve over the lip. Too bad. It’d be nice to watch Steve’s throat work when he swallowed. Bucky always appreciated that, always enjoyed the secret thrill he got when he saw it accompanied by other people and he knew and they didn’t that Steve looked exactly the same no matter what he was swallowing. He assumed they didn’t, anyway; he and Steve had never talked about it, but he didn’t think Steve was seeing anyone else.

 

He closed his eyes at the shiver that gave him, thinking about this thing they had and how he could never explain it to himself if he tried. When he opened them, Steve was watching him.

 

The half-canteen of water trying to settle in his stomach rippled at the sudden force of his clenching muscles, clenched because there was no way Steve could look at him like that and not know what would happen. And sure enough, like on command (and maybe Steve had commanded it, maybe that was the _point_ ), he was at attention.

 

He couldn’t help it. He looked down at his dick trying to saw a hole through his last cleanish pair of underwear like it was coming up for air, and Steve looked down and saw it, too, and that smile, that _smile_ , broke across Steve’s face like Christmas had come early. And then it disappeared, and that’s when Bucky knew: they were going to play Serious this time.

 

He spilled the rest of the water down his chest, completely by accident even if the relative coolness of it felt nice, at least until he realized the sweat puddle under him had tripled in size because of it (on the other hand, the ratio of water to sweat was now firmly kicking sweat’s ass, so maybe it was an improvement).

 

“Fuck,” he muttered.

 

“Hey,” Steve said. He set the canteen out of the way and sat back. “Aren’t we trying to set a good example for the kids back home?”

 

Bucky bit his lip so he wouldn’t laugh. Instead he pretended to be indignant. “The kids back home probably have fans.”

 

“You don’t have fans?”

 

Maybe he’d appreciate the wordplay more when it wasn’t ninety degrees out. As it was … “Cute joke, _Dad_.”

 

He was about to strip off his underwear and see where he could take this when he looked up and noticed the flush on Steve’s face that despite Hell’s gates opening right on their metaphorical front lawn he hadn’t had before.

 

He was about to apologize, wondering if he’d ruined things with his mouth, when Steve’s hips shifted, way too careful and subtle to be anything but a neon sign proclaiming “Here Lieth Steve’s Massive Erection,” which prompted him into thinking a tasteless “stiff as the dead” joke, which got him to thinking about shambling zombies and wondering if they shuffled that way because they had awkward stiffies, too.

 

He absolutely Did Not Laugh. (He saved that material for Toro later. Toro would always appreciate his tasteless jokes.)

 

Whatever, either way, Steve was in now, and it didn’t matter what the mercury said, Bucky would never turn down what few chances he got at Steve’s uninhibited side. If Steve wanted him to dance naked ‘round a campfire, he’d do it right now.

 

Bucky softened his voice a little. “Real sorry about the water. I could use help peeling these off. You know how awkward wet clothes are.”

 

Steve had a snort-worthy look on his perfect face, but he was silent as he reached over and gently pulled down Bucky’s sopping underwear, pausing to nudge Bucky’s hips to lift and then navigate them over Bucky’s dick. It felt nice, the clinging material sliding over him with a slight tug, interestingly cool but rapidly warming to a humid skin temp. Steve left them tangled around his ankles.

 

Bucky made an offended harrumph sound in the back of his throat, but Steve kissed his forehead, saying, “I like you right here, just as you are. Wouldn’t want you getting any ideas about moving.”

 

“Not even if I wanted to sit in your lap?”

 

Steve shot him an irritated look.

 

Bucky raised his hands in placation. “Okay, okay.” He paused. “So. What do you want?”

 

Steve watched him for a moment, pushing his hair back over his forehead where it stuck in tacky clumps. “The same thing I always want,” he murmured, leaning in suddenly, hands big on the back of Bucky’s neck, where his lips soon followed. The vibration of his voice on Bucky’s skin, the buzz so close to the tender places of his throat, was electric. “To take care of you like you deserve.”

 

And Bucky was just floored, because damn it, Steve. You can’t just pull stuff like that on a guy, he wanted to say, because that was what Steve did, act normal and then suddenly remind you why you were in love with him, why you followed him into warzones and had his six and would gladly lay down your life for him without hesitation. At least, he did with Bucky.

 

“To make sure you have what you need,” he continued, trailing his vows down Bucky’s sternum. “To show you how much I appreciate you, always.”

 

Bucky suddenly remembered the first time Steve had set his lips on him in any way more than just friendly affection, how he’d been complaining yet again about the comics making him out to be some dumb kid who followed Steve around, and Steve had gotten that tight, crooked grin on his face, the one Bucky was starting to think only he saw even in a room full of people, and he’d said, “Buck, I don’t think you’re some dumb kid,” all wry like there was something funny about it, and he’d kissed him, and Bucky had melted then like he was melting now.

 

He licked a wide trail down to Bucky’s navel, broad and wet like he was trying to cool Bucky with his tongue, and Bucky would have made fun of him if it hadn’t ironically made his mouth so dry he couldn’t form even hilarious words. Even _dirty_ words.

 

His fingers went to clutch at Steve’s massive, capable shoulders, and he realized that Steve was still fully dressed. He was torn, wanting to let Steve set the tone and just plain wanting what he wanted, and in the end he remembered what Steve had said, about how he wanted Bucky to have what he needed, and right now he needed to see every inch of Steve, so he tugged and pushed at Steve’s shirt until he got the message and pulled away to take it off.

 

He whined. It wasn’t becoming, probably, but whatever. He’d made much more embarrassing sounds for much flimsier reasons than the prospect of Steve Rogers’s perfect pecs. And for added alliterative appeal, his perfect penis, to boot.

 

When Steve was naked, he sat back on his heels, absently rubbing Bucky’s thighs. “What do you need?” he asked, and he could have been asking if Bucky needed a glass of warm milk, his voice so soothing it seemed incongruous with the bobbing, definitely interested dick Bucky was certain was not a heat mirage.

 

He had comebacks, he had jokes, he had dirty requests, but all that seemed able to pass his lips was a soft, almost bashfully uttered, “Just … I want you to touch me. Just be near me.”

 

He was almost embarrassed at how needy that had sounded, stripped bare by the heat and the open devotion Steve had flooded him with, presented like an offering at an altar. But there was no need. Steve shifted his stupidly huge shoulders in the little tent until he was beside Bucky, so close their skin was already gluing together in a sweaty trap, and Bucky turned to lay back and pillow his head this time on Steve’s arm, much bigger and more comfortable, soft now despite the hard muscle. His skin was shockingly fever hot. Bucky forgot, sometimes, how hot he ran, how he could get worked up, too, when he acted so cool and in control.

 

But he was hot, alright. Bucky thought about grinding back into him, but he liked this moment hanging between them too much to turn it into something that it wasn’t trying to be.

 

He relaxed into Steve’s arms, his back to Steve’s chest, and breathed. It was stifling in the tent, the heat and Steve’s skin and even their warm, humid breath conspiring to make Bucky dizzy with it, but he didn’t care anymore. Steve’s free hand swiped all over him, up and down, softly and then more firmly, not quite a massage but more than teasing.

 

Steve understood, he thought, that sometimes he just needed to be touched. Maybe more than the average person. He just needed it. And Steve never made it out to be anything but normal, this fierce skin-hunger than welled up in him some days.

 

He didn’t even care that Steve had barely grazed his dick, until suddenly he did, and he decided … he decided, pretty impulsively, in the heat of the moment (har har, pun intended), to try something. He couldn’t know if he liked it, he reasoned, unless he gave it a shot, and Steve was very much an apologies over permission sort of person.

 

“Daddy…”

 

Steve’s hand froze over his belly. It stuttered back into motion a moment later, fingernails scraping down to the coarse wiry hairs at the base of his dick, like a homing beacon had dragged them right to it.

 

Bucky shifted a little. He started to roll over onto his back, so he could see Steve, and then thought better of it. He reached down and gave Steve’s hand a quick squeeze. “C’mon, Daddy.”

 

Steve, always in control, always calculating and thinking, always thinking of the big picture … shuddered against him, sighing into the back of his neck and pushing his hips forward until Bucky felt what he was certain was a new moisture joining the party. He held Bucky tighter to him as he wrapped his big fingers around his dick and stroked firmly but slowly. Bucky wriggled a little, trying to get more, but he kept the same pace, the same grip. It was slick as sin from his sweaty groin, Steve’s clammy palm. The tent was rapidly smelling less like old socks and guy sweat and dirt and more and more like sex. It made him feel grown-up, which was stupid because he was seventeen and already plenty grown-up, thank you very much; but also very protected in this cocoon that smelled of him and Steve, with Steve’s arms tight around him, his body shielding him from the entrance of the tent.

 

He was loose with the heat, but stiffening more and more the closer he got, muscles bunching and fluttering, and Steve didn’t seem inclined to draw it out. Breathy gasps of air forced past his lips until finally he spilled over Steve’s fist, legs stretching out long and tight and shaky and then curling in toward his stomach.

 

After a few panting breaths he almost offered Steve a hand, before he realized that apparently the small of his back had been help enough. He almost hadn’t even noticed it between his own afterglow and the swampy feeling of sweat and humidity he was already coated in. He would have laughed about it, but it didn’t feel like the time. Instead he turned around, took Steve’s face in his, and kissed him square on the lips, forehead, and nose, in that order.

 

 

“I feel great,” he said. “Like punching Hitler maybe.”

 

The corner of Steve’s mouth jumped. He reached back, the muscles in his shoulders and upper chest going taut, and pulled out another canteen. “Stay hydrated,” he said.

 

Bucky stuck out his tongue, and Steve took the opportunity to pour a glug of water into his open mouth. He sputtered just a little, feigning indignance, but he gladly opened it again, and Steve smiled.


End file.
